


The Sweet Sound of Everything Ending

by mikethemechanic



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Awkwardness, Cute, F/M, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28391754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikethemechanic/pseuds/mikethemechanic
Summary: Just another cliche Calum Hood fan-fiction, in which everyone falls in love.Biden's win gave me just enough serotonin to write this, enjoy.
Relationships: Calum Hood/Original Female Character(s), Calum Hood/You
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

The rain is full of ghosts today.

Upon his red umbrella come the playful sounds of dancing drops, and from it's rim comes the sight of their more relaxed cousins, dripping as if their soul purpose was to bring a sense of ease and calm to the day. As the rain became more intense, it began to soak the bottom of each black jean leg, deepening the denim to a stronger hue, bringing Calum’s brown boots to a glossy water-shine, becoming a kind of natural cocoon. As his barefoot touches the sole, his toes are bathed in the newly bequeathed rain. It gurgles, bubbling as he walks, soothing in its coolness.

The morning came as if even the clouds had inner grins. In the wash of the new light, his face took on the appearance of an old photograph, one of nostalgia, so beautiful. The watch upon his feeble wrists shone the most subtle blue and glimmered with each passing stride, slow and steady. Today, of course, was no different than the rest.

He had found the watch in a yard sale, yet it could have graced the shelves of any upmarket antique store. It was a thing of beauty, a mechanical dream made of tiny, tiny cogs. He had scooped it up as if he imagined others could see the prettiness he did - yet as is often the way, its beauty was in the eye of the beholder. He hurried his pace, after all, he didn’t want it getting wet, no more than it already was, anyways.

The latte in his hand is overpriced and at first, he finds it bitter. It sits prettily in a white recyclable cardboard cup, a leaf pattern in delicate milky foam among the pale brown. He wraps his fingers around it, enjoying the heat that spreads through his hands. Ashton sips at his like it is a great luxury, his face is the same as when he takes a nip of his single malt, relaxed, savouring both the drink and the moment. Calum takes another sip, still bitter, but only babies ask for hot chocolate or syrup.

He takes a bigger sip and this time lets the warm liquid sit on his tongue for longer. There is a flavour there, once accustomed to the bitterness it steps forth shyly. It is this undertone that is so apparent in the aroma - you can't smell bitterness and so in the cold air of the parking lot it is just as heady as the smell of gasoline.

To his standards, today was a grey, slow morning. No music, he thought. Maybe, that was the problem.

The train is late, again. Ashton had offered a ride and he had declined, but by now, he realized, just how stupid that was. Now, Calum is left shivering on the platform with ten minutes of numbing quiet. Beside him, the gentle clunk of a lipstick stained lid and her 6 am Earl Grey lands in the bin with the flick of her wrist. She looks like a Valerie. Long, soft curls and chunky black boots.

Calum picks at his hair. A rogue page of yesterday’s newspaper is chased by the wind like a pigeon with wings fluttering with feathers of rhetoric and melodrama. The raucous, metallic shriek heralds the arrival of the decrepit carriage, standing in defiance of its condition - all corroded iron and tacky upholstery. The doors reluctantly eases open with the force of a stocky station guard, as if gripped by age, the handles stiff with arthritis. There is only one advantage of waking up at five thirty in the morning from the cacophonous chorus of squabbling birds. He is endowed with the generous elbow room and a guaranteed window seat all to himself.

Settling into his self-entitled throne, He unravels a 470 calorie cream cheese and smoked salmon bagel, humble in its crumpled paper bag. Crumbs rain into the crevices of the grimy moquette fabric as he attempted to swallow the taste of regret. Should definitely have ordered that smoothie instead, he notes.

The train takes a plunge, inching forward at an excruciating pace. It rocks back and forth, its relentless whining and groaning comparable to a resident of any nursing home. Saturated fat, carbs, cholesterol and hypertension - big words thrown around in last month’s Women’s Health issue.

Back from the bathroom, the girl seats herself once more. She stepped out into the light, that girl with the black hair. It flowed down her back like black ink of a tilted piece of parchment. Her eyes were fox-like and had an icy greyish green hue like the first sprouts of plants in the snow. They'd call her skin white, yet it was not the white of a new page but the palest of brown.

There eyes meet, “Hi.” she says.

“Hello.”

“Is it okay if I sit,” she gestures towards the seat beside him, her scrawny elbows make an appearance, matching her somewhat crooked smile. “Closer?” It was no secret, to him, that gloomy morning, she was cute.

They sit there, talking, her and Calum. Only interested in keeping the conversation going - heaven forbid there be a pause. She says something - followed by his pretended interested response. He says something - and she politely laughs. Neither of them talking about the things that really matter, their deepest secrets, their hidden pain, or what brings them true joy.

There they are, completely blind to how superficial this conversation really is.

“Calum, It is, correct? your name?” He never told her that, not that he could recall and by the slightest furrow of his eyebrow does she continue. “You shop at my bookstore, the one downtown, I didn’t mean to startle you like that. I’m not a stalker.” Her laugh is shallow and her humor dry, noticeable, but dry. Again come her elbows, her hands becon for a handshake as she leans forward, “Edith,” she smiles again, so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness. It was a surprise, looking at the charismatic ability she withheld. Only someone so stupid could resist it.

He stammers, once again, “I have some-some stuff, I should probably return to.” Looking down it was easy to tell there was nothing important sitting in his lap, but he was shy, and she, she seemed to take the hint.

“Of course, I’m so sorry,” he had then just realized the mistake he had made. “Take care.” By that moment he knew. She was the girl people wrote songs about, and maybe, just maybe, he could be the first.

Calum tucked the bagel back into its bag, he says his goodbyes. The ebb and flow of movement brings him to his station. A blessing and a curse.

Once out of the subway he navigates by intersection and aromas. Otherwise it would be impossible to know where he was. Calum moves along in the thick crowd, mostly several inches to a foot taller than everyone else. he can see the bright shop signs, the buildings that orient him. He is frequently jostled, but then he doesn’t weigh much more than a teenager. With the smell of coffee he knows he needs to turn right next and start to weave his way over. The crowd parts around a newspaper dispenser but he fails and is instead left smooshed up against it for a few moments, his smart cream suit brushing up against the traffic dirtied glass.

Unlike a child there is no Mom or Dad to pull him away and instead he must inch sideways until once again, he is in the current. Calum veers into the next street to the aroma of samosas. If he can get close enough he'll buy a few; some for lunch, some to take home. But he can't see the cart, and once again, he is adrift in the moving bodies.

The stadium creeps up over him like a walking giant, only he is the one in control. Maybe, if he had gotten off later, he wouldn’t of taken so long, yet the scenery wasn’t worth missing. The boys would understand why he was late anyways, it was no big deal, not to him anyway.

The crowd flowed down the wide avenue the same way the Thames always meets its banks. The mood of the people swirled in unseen currents beneath the dark surface of their faces. In a thousand strong men there wasn't a single smile or expression of doubt. The only sound was their feet on the aging tarmac and the howl of the wind rising above them. Every one of them must have been feeling the biting of after-rain dew through their tired clothes and worn boots.

The doorway was the same as every other in the block, straight with clean lines; yet it lead to the stage, and in that was its specialness. Backstage people are loud, angry, and loud. The crowd that was once outside was now swarming under the popcorn ceiling and throughout the plastic seats, littered with garbage and alcohol. It was Calum’s nature to stay in his corner and watch the others. He enjoyed his little observations, quiet and contempt, as his mother often put it.

In seconds, the lights dim, the video plays above the crowd, everyone cheers once more. _Show time_.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Calum's toes touched the stage there was a frisson that was too elusive to name, yet later he could say what it was. The point at which his will for adventure took over from his shy sense of vulnerability, there was a rush of electricity that jump started his soul. The spotlight had hit his skin as if it were greeting his eternal inner fire, echoing the stars. Neon lights flashed everywhere like police sirens, but much more colorful. People had often told him the stage was where the dreams they wanted to touch yet couldn't quite reach came out to play and, by now, that was all the more believable.

Music filled the air without effort, like the waves filling holes in beach sand; the sound rushing in and around every person in the room. Some react to the beat, others continue in seating themselves, but always it speaks to them in some manner. A lively tempo can lift them, elevate the spirit, or move them to dance, whilst a slow one can relax the mood. Before the notes filled the air every person was an island, with it they all feel the same tidal flows and the beginnings of togetherness feels warm.

For Calum, The rock music cranks his joy right up, hijacking his brain. Somehow the scent of smoke get's infused with the beats and he felt like dancing again, a chilled bottle of wine on the deck table far behind him and glasses in various states of being emptied. Scanning the crowd, it was easy to see that they felt the same. 

Everyone had been so jubilant, singing the songs that belonged to the inebriated and joyful. They rubbed shoulders never minding that their toes were often trodden on or that they were in closer proximity to these strangers than they usually were to friends or even family. The atmosphere was one of elation, the cold autumn air occasionally punctuated by whoops and hollers. Everything seemed so magical that day. 

Something made him stop singing that night, he stuttered, sputtered, until he could finnaly get a grip. He had scanned the crowd endlessly, and then, for that second that, there eyes met. The same girl, different place. In that moment there was a steadiness to her, it was as if all the storms in the world were a whispering breeze if she was there. She wore a soft sweater that matched her eyes, the type that could have fitted the both of them within, a sort of warm cocoon for those black wintry nights. It fitted her small form. The trousers were the usual sort men wear, but on her they somehow drew the eye in, or perhaps there was more to her than all that.

Jabbing his ribs is Michael, and the reaction he receives is what he had hoped for as Calum turned quickly before regaining his posture, his voice perhaps, had been crammed. Her mouth twitched, and he was pretty sure she was fighting a smile.

The set carried on as it was supposed too, as any set would, and yet it seemed everlasting. From the stage Edith looks like she's floating more than anything, like she twirls without effort in a serenity Calum couldn't help but crave, yet remained with no more than a soft sway.

He wondered if she had recognized him, maybe from the train, maybe even before that, but she wouldn't of talked to him before, would she? By now, the curls on her back bounced and soon fell in cinnamon swirls to a face that was as sweet as a white chocolate button. She wouldn't of done that, he thought, no way.

Each night the four would bow after show, showing serenity before exiting towards the back, away from the public eye, and safe at home. Each night Calum would meet eyes with as many people as was possible, but tonight was different, of course, he only had eyes for one of them and It didn't take long before he realized, she wasn't there.

The sweat gained laid on his skin as softly as the city fog had before and he wore it the same way a hero wears rain. Heat licked at his tired face and coiled around his limbs like a great hot-blooded serpent. It was often this way, the tired boys could finally lay down after a days work, yet today Calum didn't want to.

On the table was a water bottle. He didn't doubt that the thick and scratched plastic was once red, but now the light that shone through was undeniably pink. It's bright blue lid was a mismatch too, likely from the same brand but a different color and one less used or newer. 

There was water in it and he was thirsty alright, but Ashton had said sunshine on a plastic bottle can cause bacterial growth and he really wasn't that desperate, not yet. He stowed it underneath the contents of his arm and hurried to sit, even if he didn't need the water, the bottle might come in handy. Backstage was as crowded as ever by now, in a couple minutes everyone would be escorted outside onto a bus that may or may not take them home, but as usual, it all depended on their mood.

Around his bicep he feels someone tug him away, calloused fingers running across his damp skin before landing him behind a stage curtain. Big and black, there was no way anyone would see him under there. The hands are slow releasing as they rotate his mass and he feels eyes pierce his skin, just as her small hands once did. She looked at him then, her black eyes drilling into his. Calum couldn't help but think - he'd never seen such dark eyes with so much light in them.

His pockets are pulled aside as she knowingly slips something inside, eye contact met and sustained. He doesn't move, whether he was afraid or intrigued, nothing would have changed. In that intimate space, so close to the nape of her neck, he already knew the scent of her perfume was something he'd always crave. Her perfume was as her spirit is; there was something of dancing flowers about it, that aromatic song, that floral orchestra of the soul. Saying Calum was delighted was an understatement.

Edith's lips alight on his cheek then, like a dew freckled petal caught in a breeze, so soft and with the smallest hint of coolness, before he is pushed so lightly that he doesn't realize he had been pushed at all. There is something so eternal about those lips, as much as her eyes.

"Goodbye stranger," and with that, Edith wasn't seen again that night. Like a ghost in the wind, quick and quiet, yet so lovely to look at.


End file.
